


guns & drums and guns & drums and the enemy never slew you

by postcardmystery



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blood, Gore, M/M, Murder, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-16
Updated: 2012-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-16 09:59:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postcardmystery/pseuds/postcardmystery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I was under the impression that you were dead,” you say, and Peter Hale isn’t his nephew, doesn’t snarl, does not concede to show you his fangs so early, merely smirks, says, “Who here hasn’t died a few times, between friends?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	guns & drums and guns & drums and the enemy never slew you

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings for blood, violence, gore, and murder.

You take the shot, make the shot, keep going until it’s you or them. A life of this, a childhood, a sister with fire in her smile, a marriage that ended in blood on a teenager’s sheets, and if this is not a dagger you see before you, that’s because it’s a pump-action shotgun and it’s already loaded.

“Are you going to show me one of your knives again?” says Derek Hale, carefully bored, and you smile and say, “Not when my bare hands will do.”

 

 

You died for the first time in a forest in Washington, died again in a little church just beyond the Mexican border, blood on your hands and it’s yours or an alpha’s or one of the betas he used as cannon fodder, you’re not sure. You felt your heart stop beating and you watched your sister pull the bullet out with her fingers and you died, you died and you know it, and how many times can a man die and still be human, how many times can your heart stop and still be called a heart?

 

 

“He told you to do it,” you say, and Kate never answers you, and you’re glad. You’re not sure which answer would be worse.

 

 

You watch the Hale boy play at being an alpha, and you don’t put the rabid dog down. You weren’t born to be a leader but you know how to lead, and the kid shakes with a fight or flight mechanism gone wrong. You watch and you wait and you sharpen your axe, and if someone’s afraid of the big bad wolf, it sure as shit isn’t you.

 

 

“I was under the impression that you were dead,” you say, and Peter Hale isn’t his nephew, doesn’t snarl, does not concede to show you his fangs so early, merely smirks, says, “Who here hasn’t died a few times, between friends?”

 

 

There’s no such thing as the big bad wolf, but there’s such a thing as Peter Hale. He stands as Derek’s second even though he has no right to stake his claim, wears leather boots so you always hear him coming, never ever shows you fear. You flick a knife through the air just to watch it flash in the light, and he grins. The kids play at being soldiers, and you do not need to play.

Peter meets your eyes and his gaze flickers blue, and he has never needed to play, either.

 

 

“You reek of death,” says Peter, head-tilted, musing and vicious with it, and you load your gun, point it in his face, say, “You’re one to talk.”

 

 

You die for the third time on the steps of the Hale house, flesh hanging off your ribcage in strips and a gun tantalisingly too far from your broken fingers. The kids whine in hellish unison and Peter leans into your neck, says, “Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf?”

Your hands scrabble over bleeding flesh and your bare your neck, say, “Not me.”

 

 

You don’t cover up the scar and he never asks you to. You already wore leather and it thrills you every time you don’t have to reach for a gun beneath your clothes. You leave each other ragged, heal by morning, and he stinks of you and grave dirt and what you learn, in time, is madness.

“Want to get out of here?” he says, his eyebrow raised to show you he knows  _just_  how trite that sounds, and you rev your motorbike, match his grin, let your eyes flash red.


End file.
